


Half Full, Not Empty

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic, TalesWhumpWeek, more party-family feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16084868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: Trust goes both ways, and so do pacts between vessels and seraphim. Sorey knows this, but he learns it all over again with a little help from Lailah… and Dezel.Done for the prompt “missing” in the TalesWhumpWeek challenge on tumblr.





	Half Full, Not Empty

It takes half an hour of twisting and turning for Sorey to decide that something definitely isn’t right.

He sits up in a quiet huff, shoving away his sweat-soaked sheet to sit on the edge of the bed. The darkness is welcome for his sore eyes and the silence appreciated by his throbbing headache—but he’s painfully aware that it’s a little _too_ quiet, even for the middle of the night. His senses feel off, muddled, but he’s still conscious of a gap in his awareness, the feeling of a blind spot, as if his resonance is flickering out again. A glance at the next bed over reassures him that’s not the case; he can make out Mikleo’s sleeping form just fine.

He doesn’t let his eyes wander to the empty bed on the other side of the room. Maybe he should—maybe avoiding the issue in even a small way is bad for him—but he can’t quite bring himself to bother. He already feels awful enough as it is, both inside and out.

After a few minutes of trying and failing to meditate away the unease in his stomach, Sorey steps into his boots as he climbs shakily to his feet. It takes him a lot longer than it should to locate his shirt on the nearby chair, which he nearly knocks over before spending almost a full minute trying to pull the shirt on. He feels clumsy and slow, as if his body can’t keep up with his mind.

His fumbling doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Sorey?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles quickly, nearly cutting Mikleo off. “Just need some air.” He manages to keep his steps straight and his head high as he reaches the door, but out in the hallway he nearly collapses. Clutching his chest, he leans against the closest wall and breathes, shallow and fast but as quietly as he can manage. He feels hot all over, and dizzy, and sick, and he’s starting to doubt his decision to be less-than-honest with Mikleo—but after a few moments the worst of the nausea abates, and he falls back into his hope that the night air might be what he needs.

The rest of the inn is deserted. Outside, Pendrago’s streets are almost as empty; only the guards stationed by the distant gate catch his attention. Sorey succeeds in making it down the steps to the main square without incident, although his last few steps are stumbling and he almost falls in the fountain when he sits on its edge. Running his hands over his face and through his hair, he tries to focus on the sound of running water and let it ease his nerves.

He’s been sick enough times in his life to know what a fever feels like, but the intense fatigue clinging to him now is anything but natural. He feels heavy, drained, and smothered, but also hollow and lightheaded. The closest thing he can compare it to is the spell that hit him after forging his pacts with Lailah and Mikleo—but while that was tiring, it didn’t _hurt_. It didn’t leave an aching pang in his chest that throbbed sharply in time with his pulse.

Some of that weight, he knows, isn’t physical. The events of the night are still heavy on his heart and mind; he’s still upset, still shocked, still full of _what-ifs_ and _buts_ and _if-I-had-onlys_. Talking with the others eased those feelings, but it didn’t erase them. Nothing will, he already knows. Even the passage of time isn’t that merciful.

He winces as the throbbing in his head doubles, making his vision blur. In hindsight, coming outside alone like this was probably a bad idea.

Pushing himself back to his feet, he starts his way back to the inn at a slow, wobbling pace. His sight’s so distorted that it’s almost useless now, but trying to focus on anything only makes his migraine worse. He closes his eyes instead, figuring he can at least walk in a straight line to the bottom of the stairs. He figures wrong.

He catches himself when he falls, but barely: his knees still hit the cobblestones hard enough to hurt and the pain rouses him back to clarity for a moment, which is just long enough for him to recognize that he’s about to pass out.

He wakes to a soft touch on his face and a softer voice.

“Sorey! Sorey, can you hear me?”

_Yeah,_ he tries to say, but it’s only a groan that makes it out of his sore throat. He hears a relieved sigh.

“Oh, thank goodness…”

He opens his eyes and stares at a mess of blurry stars overhead. He quickly gives up and drapes an arm across his face, breathing slow and trying to steady the bile rolling in his stomach. “Sorry,” he murmurs once he finds his voice. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I…” Sorey lets that thought hang there for a few beats. He hurts in the sense that he still aches all over, but that doesn’t really count. “Think I’m sick,” he proposes finally, voice hoarse. Moving his arm, he makes an effort this time to look over at the one kneeling beside him.

Lailah’s face is etched with worry. She has one hand on his chest. “Sick?” she echoes. “Why are you out here?”

“Went for a walk… clear my head… dumb, I know…” Sorey starts to sit up and she immediately moves to help, gently taking hold of his shoulders.

“Easy now,” she urges in a soothing voice. “Don’t move too quickly.”

Even with her assistance, it’s slow going, and he has to lean forward over his knees to avoid passing out again. “ ‘m alright,” he insists. “It’s just… fever… feeling dizzy. Sore.” He somehow manages to feel her fingers tense in surprise.

Leaning closer, into his vision, Lailah brushes some of his damp bangs from his eyes. “How long have you felt like this, Sorey?”

“I just woke up… a little bit ago. Came out of nowhere.”

She touches her wrist to his forehead. Her skin is dry and smooth and cool—a little _too_ cool, Sorey knows, cooler than a healthy human would be. “And you felt alright before you went to sleep?”

“Yeah. I felt fine.”

“I see…”

Sick or not, Sorey doesn’t miss that tone. He casts her a sidelong look. “Lailah?”

She shakes her head. “First let’s get you off the ground. Do you think you can stand?”

With her help Sorey makes it back onto the fountain’s ledge. She sits beside him and keeps an arm behind his shoulders, which he appreciates, since he’s not entirely sure he won’t pitch backwards into the water at the rate his head continues to pound and spin. It takes a few minutes, but his stomach finally settles back to where it’s supposed to be and breathing doesn’t feel like such a chore. His headache’s another matter, but it gradually becomes bearable enough that he can speak without his voice ringing in his ears.

“Right. I’m alright now.” Her touch tentatively retreats, and coincidentally his chest tightens in the same instant—but only for a few beats, and then it eases up again. “You know what this is?” he asks, getting straight to the point. He’s staring down at his knees, but he hears her give a grim hum.

“...It isn’t unheard of for a Shepherd to suffer side effects from a bound seraph’s death.” In the corner of his eye he notices her hands clasping in her lap. “You and Dezel were linked for some time. Even though he severed your connection prior, it’s no great surprise that you would feel an aftershock of sorts.” Her fingers tighten. “I’m very sorry, Sorey. As the intermediate, I felt nothing at the time, and you appeared to be fine. I made the mistake of assuming your level of power would—”

She stops, blinking at where Sorey’s hand is covering both of hers. Her stare follows his arm up to his face, where she looks doubly surprised—at either his easy smile or the pain he’s obviously trying to mask with it. “No,” he assures her softly, if still a bit gruffly, “it’s alright. I’m… glad.” Feeling her fingers loosen, he lets go and tilts his head back, gazing skyward with another slow breath in, slow breath out. “Now I understand where it’s coming from. This feeling that… I couldn’t place before.” He grasps the front of his shirt, over his heart. “...It’s the feeling that something’s missing.”

Lailah exhales quietly, slowly. “Sorey…”

For a moment they simply sit side-by-side in silence.

Thinking about it now, of all times, Sorey realizes just how much mutual reliance is involved in a pact: as vessel, he trusts the seraphim not to misuse him, and sacrifices much of his personal privacy; in return the seraphim trust him to remain pure and protect them from malevolence, and not to misuse them in return. Dezel would have probably denied it, but even he must have put a certain amount of faith in Sorey—in his potential, at least, if not in him personally.

So it all makes sense, he supposes: the pact might have enabled the connection, but at the end of the day it’s really just a formality. Rituals and True Names and Prime Lord authority aside, he and Dezel were bound, body and spirit and soul, in what was probably the closest way two people can be. Just as his heart and mind ache from the emotional strain, his body is reacting to the loss of something it grew accustomed to, something it came to see as natural and part of a whole—something that was there for so long, and then suddenly ripped away without warning.

Sorey’s quiet for a couple moments more. Then:

“Thank you, Lailah.”

“Huh?”

He meets her confused look with another smile, this one knowingly tinted with a little sadness. “For explaining. I’m actually... kind of grateful for feeling this way. If I didn’t, it might mean that I take you all for granted.” He links his fingers loosely between his knees, absently tracing his thumbnail along a scar on the heel of his hand. “I mean, I don’t _like_ feeling this way—I don’t like being sad, either—but I think it’s better than feeling nothing. And I think that maintaining that balance—between feeling nothing, and giving in to your negativity entirely—it’s just what it means to be human. The sooner I recognize that… well.” He breathes a sheepish laugh. “I don’t know if that makes it easier, but… the more I know about myself, the better. Right?”

Lailah hums again. She still looks somber, but the sound and her small smile are pleased. “Indeed.”

“And besides…” He places his hand over his heart again—but this time it’s a fist, and he thumps his chest for emphasis. “Even if something’s missing, that doesn’t mean I have to feel empty. I _can’t,_ really,” he adds with a crooked grin. “Not when I have friends like you beside me and supporting me the whole way.”

Her smile grows, fond and gentle and pleasant and… more open, somehow, more personal, than the smile Sorey’s used to seeing. He’s immediately glad he helped put it on her face—and now his aches and pains and even passing out seem worth the trouble.

“Thank _you,_ Sorey,” she says warmly, “for exceeding all my expectations as Shepherd—and for being such a wonderful and supportive friend yourself.”

He gives a soft, slightly self-conscious snort. “I’m not really sure how much help I’ve been. I feel like I’ve leaned on you a lot, honestly.”

“But you’re _willing_ to lean on another.” She beams up at him with that same open smile, as if having made a joke that went over his head. “That alone makes me happier than you know.” And just like that, she’s back to her usual cheerful smile as she glances across the square, abruptly and clearly changing the subject. “Are you feeling well enough to walk? We should get back to the inn.”

Being far too used to her quirks by now, Sorey doesn’t object. “Yeah. I should be able to make it back now.”

Lailah stands and moves in front of him, offering her hands. He takes them, gratefully, and gives her some of his weight as he climbs to his feet. It’s a little too fast—he winces as his head goes light again and for a second he starts to tilt backwards. Lailah’s hands are strong and her firm hold on his wrists helps him stay upright, but he’s already overcompensated with a clumsy jerk forward and he ends up running straight into her.

Her weight starts to give under his and there’s another uncertain moment where it feels like he’s going to knock them both to the ground now—but Lailah’s hands slip under his arms and up to his shoulders, much quicker than his dizzy mind can hope to follow, and in a smooth motion she turns in place to absorb his momentum and ends up keeping them both on their feet.

The result is an awkward kind of hug as he leans against her, arms at his sides as he takes a moment to blink the stars out of his eyes and wait for the world to stop spinning. She gives a small, chittering laugh into his shoulder, but it isn’t unkind. “Maybe not quite yet.”

“Sorry.”

“Should I get Mikleo?”

“Nah, I just… need a minute. Stood up too fast, is all.” Sorey starts to pull away, but she only gives him a couple inches—not exactly holding him in place, but not entirely letting him go, either.

“Careful—I’ve got you. Unless you’re really in a rush to see the ground again,” she teases.

He laughs and starts to shake his head, but decides against it when the night drifts in and out of focus. “No, but I was just talking about leaning on you too much.”

“And I said I didn’t mind,” she replies promptly and simply, as if to say _and that’s that._ “And besides… better safe than _Sorey_ , as they say!”

He sags against her again with a low sigh, although this time it has nothing to do with dizziness. “Guess… I can’t argue with a joke that specific.”

She chuckles again and he feels her body hum with it where they touch. It’s not that strange a sensation, especially after armatizing with her so many times and long since crossing typical personal boundaries, but it’s still kind of new, still a little different. Mikleo and Gramps and the rest of the family never object to casual or affectionate contact, but it’s always been brief, never prolonged like this. Sorey’s never really had the chance to stop and consider what a hug really means and implies—trust, fondness, appreciation—and even though it’s not _really_ a hug, just Lailah helping him stand, it also sort of is.

“Sorey.”

He’s surprised to hear her sound serious again. He pulls back and cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse of her face, but she’s turned away. “I don’t doubt that you’re walking the right path—not only as Shepherd, but for yourself, as well. Difficult though it’s been at times, you’ve maintained that balance far better than I’ve come to expect of anyone in your position.” Her grip doesn’t exactly tighten, but her fingertips press into his shoulders a bit more noticeably. “If I can ask such a thing… please promise me that you’ll try not to change—no matter what happens.”

Blinking at her, Sorey smiles uncertainly and his tone follows. “What’s this about, all of a sudden?”

She slowly shakes her head. “It’s nothing…” Lailah looks forward to stare at a spot somewhere behind him, but at Sorey’s height her bangs hide her eyes. “I’m sure I have nothing to worry about now,” she murmurs. “As long as you keep that confidence and trust in others, I fully believe you’re capable of walking forward against anything, whether in this journey or any after it.”

Sorey’s smile fades. There’s another pause as he, too, stares past her, but his eyes don’t see the flowing streams of fountain water. “You’re talking about… if something happens to you. Aren’t you?”

This time her fingers do grip a little harder. When she doesn’t respond right away, he presses, “Lailah… what does it really mean to quell the Lord of Calamity? What have Shepherds in the past had to—” He stops himself there. As much as he wants to push for answers, he’s not sure she’s allowed to give them. Even if she is, he’s not about to backtrack on the respect he’s shown her privacy so far. “...No. I’m sorry. I won’t ask.”

“...As frustrating as it may sound, I think you’re better off not knowing too much of the past. Your journey and your path are your own, Sorey, and you needn’t be shackled by the choices of your predecessors, or compared to their successes and failures.”

“ ‘Bound to my duty, but not a slave to it.’ Right?”

She nods. “Mm. You’ve come this far by keeping your eyes on the present and future. I don’t believe you need to start looking behind you now.”

Sorey mutters a low, puzzled _ha_ under his breath. “It’s… a strange thing to hear, I admit. I’m so used to looking to history for answers—and I still believe doing so is the key to a lot of our problems. But… I get what you’re saying. The past is a reference for action... but not something we should blindly cling to. There’s a reason it’s in the past, after all,” he points out with a bit more cheer.

“That answer is very… you.” She sounds amused, but content.

“But is it the right one, I wonder.” Before she can respond, Sorey adds, “Or… are you going to tell me that’s something only I can decide?”

“It sounds like I’m getting predictable,” she replies—which isn’t an answer, he notices.

“More like you’ve just rubbed off on me. Probably.”

His head’s pretty clear by now. He still doesn’t feel great, but he feels the best he has since waking up. Heading back is sounding doable.

He straightens up a bit and starts to say as much—but then he hesitates. He lifts his hands, and after a moment places them gently on Lailah’s lower back; after a few more, he applies an easy pressure, just enough to pull her towards him. She stiffens slightly in surprise, but then he feels her relax again just as quickly.

“Thanks for that,” he says quietly. “But I’m sure there’s a lot more you can teach me. So… promise me you’ll try not to go anywhere anytime soon. And I’ll promise not to change.”

She breathes in a little too sharply—but then her soft exhale gives away her smile. Her arms tighten in return, and this time it _is_ a proper hug as she sets her chin on his shoulder.

“Very well. I promise.”


End file.
